


Break Me, Shake Me

by alexofmacedonia



Series: Lost in the Echo [2]
Category: Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: Gender Dysphoria, Other, Self Harm, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexofmacedonia/pseuds/alexofmacedonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca confesses that they feel they are transgender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Me, Shake Me

**Author's Note:**

> So the first part of this story was told all in one go, via Chloe’s POV, in the third person, as a way to distance ourselves from being able to really see what Beca is going through. This part will be split into multiple chapters, told via Beca’s point of view, in the first person. This way, we can better see what is going through their mind as they struggle with their gender identity, what it means to them, and how they go forth with it.
> 
> The prologue begins in the same time frame as the last section of Killing Me Softly, so as to fully experience the transition (lol) from Chloe’s side over to Beca’s. Each chapter after this will be a detailed look at specific time periods extending from the present.
> 
> The fic title is a song by Savage Garden.

I didn't ask for this. I know no one does, but is it really too much to ask for some normalcy? My childhood was shitty enough; I don't need my adulthood going down the drain too. At this point, though, everything has slid so far away from me, down into a fucked-up, bottomless abyss, and I can't seem to reel it back in.  
  
I think my girlfriend is the only reason I still hang on. She's my everything. My muse. My rock to cling to in the middle of a sea being ripped apart in a tempest.  
  
...My only reason for existence. Now that I've said it, that's a pretty heavy burden to put on another person. She can never know that I feel that way, because I'd feel too guilty if I then left her behind. Well, I guess _I_ wouldn’t feel guilty, if I was dead, but I know she would. She'd feel like she didn't do enough, and I don't want to put that on her.  
  
Regardless of how much Chloe keeps me grounded, I've still reached the stage where I do not care. I could get hit by a car, and that would be that. I could piss off the wrong person, and -though I might attempt to defend myself, as is human nature - I don't doubt that I would just accept it as my fate.  
  
I guess I'm not actively suicidal, but... When you live this double life, with masks and walls and neither side knowing if it's the real you, there comes a point when it all just needs to stop. Silence is golden. I think the silence found in death would be divine.  
  
I can't bring myself to say any of this to my girlfriend though. I can't purposefully worry her pretty head over anything. Her blue eyes would crinkle with concern, her shoulders would slump as if she's just been asked to carry the weight of the world, and I would be able to see the guilt she would feel in not being able to help me.  
  
This is why I try to cope with these thoughts on my own. Why I try and find things that help ease my state of mind, to quiet the questions that I can't seem to find an answer to.  
  
It's why I'm standing in my bathroom, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, socks, and a strap on.

The toy just came in the mail, and now that I have it on, I find I’m excited for what this could accomplish, both for my sex drive, and in giving me peace of mind. Smiling, I grab my phone and text Chloe. _< <baby, I have a surprise for u when u get home>>_

Stepping back in front of the mirror, I admire this bright blue dildo standing at attention from my groin. I attempt to create this sense of self, this illusion of what I wish I looked like. If I keep the shirt on, and hunch my shoulders just so, I can almost fool myself into not seeing the part of my body which gives me so much anxiety. Sure, there are other parts and aspects that I dislike, but these… lumps, these deposits of fat that for some reason automatically make me feminine. I never asked for them, and I wish more than anything that they would disappear.

I stare at myself in the mirror, unable to stop myself from picking apart everything that’s _wrong_ with my body. I’m all curves and soft edges. Even trying to picture myself with a dick isn’t enough right now, because my mind is screaming that it isn’t real, that it will never be real, and that I’m stuck looking like I do now. My mind is buzzing and all I can hear is a sound like waves breaking against rocks. The surge of emotions is whipping itself into a raging typhoon once again, and it’s all I can do to convince myself that I don’t really want to die; I just want a different life. I can’t stop staring at my chest, unable to forget what lies underneath the fabric of my shirt. These are the source of my problems. These are what make me cry and hate my life.

I need to make the buzzing stop. I won’t be able to think clearly again until it stops.

In the bedroom, hiding in the back of my pajama pants drawer, I’ve hidden a small box. I retrieve it and head back to the bathroom, perching on the closed toilet lid and try to calm my breathing. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to the side. I forgot that I’m still wearing the strap on. Now it’s mocking me, reminding me that it isn’t real; it isn’t mine. Tears are threatening to spill out of my eyes as I pick the cloth up out of the box. Unfolding it, a small piece of metal lies in the middle. I replace the cloth in the box, and hold the skin of one side of my chest down as I press the razor against my skin….

* * *

Chloe came home an hour ago, and while we’d started having mind-blowing sex thanks to my new toy, she discovered the cuts on my chest. I don’t know how I got through the last six months or so without her finding out, but now here we are.

She took the time to clean my injuries and bandage me up, which I’d never cared to do before. I just sat there, still crying, and let her take care of me. She was being so sweet, so loving. My protective walls were crashing down around me, the mask had been lifted, and I never felt more exposed.

Now, we’re lying in bed, she’s holding me close to her, and petting my hair. She finally asks the question that I know she’s been dying to ask, “Okay, baby, it’s time to talk to me. Why do you hate yourself… your body?”

“Chloe, I can’t say it. You’ll hate me. You’ll leave me. I just… I can’t.” I start to cry all over again.

“Beca! Look at me.” Chloe lifts my chin, forcing me to look her in the eye. “I will _always_ love you. It would take you doing something horrible, like killing a person, for me to stop loving you, okay?” I nod. “Now, please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

I let out a sigh and say, “I don’t think I was supposed to be born a female.” Her hand doesn’t stop petting my hair, and her other hand grabs one of mine to link our fingers together. I remain silent for a few minutes, unsure of how to continue talking about this.

After a few minutes pass, she seems to realize that’s all I can say, and so she kisses my forehead. “I don’t fully understand what that means, baby, but know that I’m here for you, no matter what. I’ll help you through this.”

She wraps her arms around me, holding tightly as if she’s afraid to let go. I feel safe within her arms now, knowing she’s here for me.

The question of my identity is still rattling around in my brain as I drift to sleep. I was born Rebecca Mitchell, but that’s not who I am. I feel a long journey ahead of me to figure that out.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr - bibecamitchell


End file.
